


He is a darling, Margaret dear, he is

by artsies



Category: Marvel (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-23
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-05 21:36:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artsies/pseuds/artsies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a proper genius, Tony has always been incredibly bored. Fortunately, as stated, he <i>is</i> a genius, and when a good opportunity presents itself to blackmail Thor's fantastically snarktastic (and powerful) little brother... well, he can't quite resist.</p>
<p>It will be good fun, won't it?</p>
<p>(written for an LJ norsekink prompt; posted over there and at my tumblr)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. He is a darling Margaret dear, he is

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt at LJ, for those interested:
> 
> Loki's evil lair of evilness is a nice little apartment in the city. Across the hall lives a little old lady (or whoever you want). I'd love a story mostly from her point of view of the strange young man who comes and goes. Does she try to guess his job? Do they have a relationship at all or does she only see him in passing? Make this as silly, cute, serious or cracky as you'd like (though I'm partial to a touch of angst and mothering, after all, Loki comes home beaten to crap from a battle with the Avengers quite a lot 'cause honestly, has he ever won?) Do the Avengers eventually track him down?  
> Says gen, but feel free to throw in a pairing if your inspired.
> 
> Bonus points for the old Loki-answers-the-door-in-a-towel-cliche (and its his neighbor's best day EVER. She's old, not dead.)

Well.

It’s not like having the norse god of mischief on earth hadn’t resulted in often cracky scenarios for the Avengers before, like ice cream falling instead of snow, or mewling frogs and talking hipster elephants roaming the city, or like animated dinosaur skeletons breaking free from museums, or even all the coffee disappearing; in all honesty, it’s not like ‘oddball’ wasn’t already associated with Loki in their heads. (Next to ‘very dangerous when he wants to be’.)

But now he has grabbed an eighty-something year old little lady off the side walk, (admittedly saving her from the falling rubble) swooping her into his arms bridal-style, appearance changing to his civilian clothing; Thor lands nearby with a mighty whoosh, hammer raised.

“Brother, what do you intend-?”, the thunderer begins, but is interrupted by a loud gasp from the granny in the pygmy giant’s arms.

“Thomas, is that you? What are you doing here? Don’t you know there are dangerous villains at battle with the Avengers?”

Loki smiles disarmingly, all smooth courtesy and british accent when he speaks, letting the senior down from his arms.

“Bless you for being so sweet Mrs. Robinson. I was just leaving when I saw the desres tumbling down onto you, and how could I have possibly left the pearl of landladies here by herself?”

The Avengers blink in united confusion, (except for Tony Stark, who snorts with laughter on the radio), and ponder whether or not they should tell the sweet old lady that she is renting to a super villain. Mrs. Robinson smiles as she regains her footing, pats Loki’s arm affectionately - she barely reaches above his elbow - sweeping some of the dust off his shirt.

“What an admirable young man you are, Thomas.”, (the Avengers shrink and Ironman has to be knocked over by Captain America lest he say something), “If only you’d find yourself a nice strong, smart man. Goodness knows, Mrs. White across the way has married ones! Now, let’s hurry out of here before something does fall on our heads.”

(Ironman turns off audio as he collapses in a fit of hysterics, because _Loki’s face when she says married ones_ and Hawkeye runs around the block.)

“I’m afraid I must leave you on your own, my brother is still caught up somewhere amongst this supernatural stag night. I worry for the berk.”, the alien replies with a concerned frown, cupping his face in a hand, “But you go on and take care of yourself, Mrs. Robinson.”

The little old lady sighs, bobs her head in understanding, and turns to leave, raising one withered hand to wave affectionately at the Avengers.

“You boys keep up the good work!”

They wave back, and Steve Rogers shouts a ‘thank you ma’am’ after her before she disappears around the corner.

“Perhaps we should listen to the wisdom of the elderly. Indeed, a nice strong man.”, Thor says as he scratches his blond beard, half-smile playing on his lips until a piece of the rubble hits him on the head, (sent with love and tender affection from his brother).

“Oh sod off, you ignorant prat.”

(And then the fighting resumes.)


	2. He makes terrible choices in dating though

[SIDE A]

Mrs. Robinson is having a splendid Thursday evening, watching her favorite soap after a good, long gossip session with Margaret - where she has claimed total and utter victory, because objectively her grandchildren were so much more awesome - not even minding the fact that she has had to take out her cane again, due to the ache in her leg. Everything is just perfect today, she thinks with a satisfied sigh, up to and including the color of her special secret recipe cookies, (made for her super grandchildren who will be visiting shortly), not long ago taken fresh out of the oven, their smell filling the house with nostalgia. 

Then there is a ring on the doorbell, and her mood is ruined. She gets cranky every time one of those damned door to door salesmen comes knocking on her door - oh, she could just give them a few good quacks to their heads, she could, but then they’d harass her for going senile and crazy. She shuffles to the door, bones and joints and all aching, and rattles with the keys as slowly as she can, hoping that by the time she peers through the peeping hole there’d be no one there.

Unfortunately, there is. 

The man is engrossed with something out of view - probably a phone in his hand - and looks a lot like that genius billionaire Tony Stark. Of course, it isn’t him, though he is a handsome fellow (after all, why would such a rich man be ringing on her doorbell?), he must be a pesky salesman.

“Yes, how may I help you?”, Mrs. Robinson says as she opens the door warily, peeking her head out and clutching her cane; this isn’t a bad neighborhood, but one never knows when one might need to defend herself, and Thomas, sweet young thing he is, has most likely never even slapped someone in his life. He is a perfect tenant, but she wouldn’t wager her life or valuables on his fighting skills.

(Oh, poor Mrs. Robinson. Somewhere, an ever-vigilant guard smiles to himself.)

“Ah, you must be Mrs. Robinson.”, the man looks up, pocketing his gadget. Indeed, he looks more like someone from around here, in jeans and a light shirt, worn with a black jacket as is fashionable with young people nowadays, and he also speaks with what she thinks is a german accent, “I’m Anton Kraftig, and I am looking for Thomas.”

Ah. For Thomas. (My oh my.)

“You should have at least brought a bonbon or something, to make a better impression.”, she mutters at him, looking the stranger over once more before yelling towards the back room and drawing back a bit to let him step into her home, “Thomas! You’ve got a guest.”

A few minutes and some noise of surprised scrambling (probably one of those towers of books getting knocked over) later, the lad pokes out his curly head from the room - well, it has it’s own bathroom and kitchenette, so she isn’t sure what is the exact label - he is renting, and Mrs. Robinson does not fail to notice his surprised and confused expression at the sight.

“You-“, he begins, thin eyebrows drawn together, green eyes sharp on the other man. (She has the feeling that she should not have let him in after all, and looks back at the Tony Stark look-alike with a tense grip on her cane. What if he is robber?)

“Don’t you recognize your friend Anton anymore?”, the guest interrupts before Thomas can finish past his one word, voice smooth and slick, with what she can only label the womanizer smile on his face, (and good heavens, if only she were at least fifty years younger!), “I know I should have brought souvenirs, but Mutti packed my bags with so much Erdbeerwein und wurst, I had not the room-“

“Anton,” Thomas says with a wary sigh, stepping out of his room and coming to the front door, “I am not your Agony Aunt.”

Mrs. Robinson is a little disappointed that there isn’t going to be a fight between them and the stranger and a little relieved that there isn’t going to be a fight between them and the stranger. (She is past her eightieth birthday, and there is only so much damage a cane could deal.) She is, however, rather surprised, for a part of what makes the young brit such a lovely tenant is the lack of loud friends turning up on her doorstep, and in the few years he has lived under her roof, this has never happened before… 

So, needless to say, she feels terribly justified to stay there, clutching her cane and sizing up this sudden ‘Anton’.

(What if he is a drug dealer, or one of those horrible loan sharks? Poor Thomas has been getting strange injuries lately, and though he keeps saying it’s just quarrels with his brother, Mrs. Robinson would rather not believe family to cause limps for weeks. (At least, not family one keeps visiting.) )

“Why are you here?”, Thomas sighs, putting his hands on his slim hips.

“Ah, mein Liebling, keinen Kuss für mich? Ich habe ein Geschenk für dich.”, Anton says whatever it is in a tone she can only label as a silent laugh, the tips of his mouth turning up in a hidden joke; Mrs. Robinson might not have been a nobel laureate, but her years and dare she say the war have made her literate in the language that is the face of men.

(And she knows a playboy when she sees one.)

She frowns, and reminds herself that Thomas is her _tenant_ , not her relative; he gets himself into whatever he wishes. Nevertheless, she scolds herself for having never bothered with learning foreign languages, especially German - though if Anton is going to stick around, which she is think he will from the glint in the eye of sweet Thomas, she just might embark on this quest. 

Because what’s a little old lady worth without her snooping? 

Nothing, she shakes her head as the two disappear behind the brit’s door, nothing at all.

\- - -

[SIDE B]

Loki closes the door behind them, and turns to him with an irritated huff.

“What the hell, Stark?!”, he breathes, but he is too fascinated with having actually made it to the room to pay much attention to the irked god of mischief yet; he looks around with the self-satisfied smirk of a man who is the first where no man has been before. (Ah, yes, always such a special feeling.) There is a pull-out sofa for a bed, still haphazardly made, green sheets of course, and he can see the tiniest of kitchenettes from where he is standing; there are also books in small towers, a coffee table and an actual television set, with a worn old-style wardrobe off to the side and a cat-themed calendar hanging off the wall, scribbled with dates.

Behold, Loki’s evil lair of evilness.

“So cozy.”

He can feel murderous intent prickling the back of his neck, so he turns around to face the angry alien. It’s rather surreal, seeing the super villain in jeans and a Marvin the Martian t-shirt, curly locks dangling (hello Shirley Temple, you’ve just met your match) and arms crossed; Tony needs to snort lest he actually laugh and get himself killed with a frying pan or that cat-calendar or whatever else is handy.

“Alright.”, he says, bringing up his hands in a placating gesture, “I’m here to make you a deal. There is going to be a gala this Sunday, real fancy and real international. Real russian maffia international. Unfortunately, little russian princess likes me a little too much, but she is as ugly as a siberian bear after having drunk it’s liver away on vodka. I want you to be my date, ‘Thomas’ darling.”

Loki raises an elegant eyebrow, sadistic little smirk forming on his thin lips as steps closer.

“What makes you think I’d bother, mein Schutz?”

Tony Stark smiles, pulling out his phone to tap away on it nonchalantly, turning around to snoop some more (and make some photos, because this is a super secret lair and all).

“Because otherwise I’m going to give this address to Thor, and we both know he won’t be real ‘Anton’ about it.”

Ah yes. That little choke - the sound of victory and a date won. He is, indeed, a genius.


	3. The Poor Darling Surely Deserves Better

[SIDE B]

They fling themselves in just before the doors shut tightly behind them and the train lurches forward, sending them toppling over once more; Loki lands on him with a small undignified yelp, suddenly switching gender as he falls. Thankfully, there are no other passengers in sight to witness this event or Tony Stark lying on the floor with a thin pale man in a drag, sans shoes atop him, on a midnight train, and the russian mobsters quickly disappear from their view as they leave the station behind.

“You should’ve just taken her to bed.”, Loki seethes at him under his breath, british accent still intact, pulling down the dress that is a bit too short for his taller masculine form. (Tony tries to ignore the sight, and tries even harder not to make a judgement on it, because _Loki is confusing his genitals as it is_.)

“I’m just not ready to die yet. Especially not by shock from hanging tits.”, he mumbles, dusting off his suit - which was not made to run for one’s life avoiding gunshots and other notorious life-threats in - and stumbles to a seat, dropping himself without much grace. “And it would have went smoothly if you hadn’t gone and started a cat fight with her. Not that I didn’t enjoy the sight.”

The alien mutters something under his breath that has the words ‘play the jealous girlfriend’ before sitting down across him; their knees bump (there is a small struggle of who exactly owns the leg space and who has the right to ‘be the man’, with the whole thing ending in the pygmy giant plopping his long legs onto Tony’s lap, smirking in that annoying self-satisfied way), and sighs in relief. The engineer stares with what murderous intent he can muster after having been chased across half the city at the other man - how is the dress still looking fabulous, he has no clue, because the tights are torn in several places, and the rather small feet are cut and dirtied from running on pavement bare - and when exactly had they lost Loki’s shoes?

“She deserved that stiletto to the head.”

Ah. Yes. Tonight’s life lesson: never anger a Goddess of Misrule in high heels. She has aim Hawkeye could be jealous of.

“I’m a little shocked you didn’t just turn everyone into pigs. Or hamsters, perhaps gerbils.”, he says, watching the alien inspect his nails, who answers with a disbelieving look.

“You said to act like a proper human female, and to my knowledge, your women do not possess the ability of turning one another into pigs or a cuppa as they so fancy. Besides, you prat, magic does actually take energy.”

“More than this?”, he says dryly, making a vague gesture to themselves and the platform they’ve left behind. Loki has the decency to at least blush, running his fingers through his smoothed out hair. (It’s a rather odd sight, really, because he still has the jewelry and the macabre and the _dress_ and is therefore giving the impression of a great drag queen, which is hilarious and oddly attractive when he thinks about it.)

“Admittedly, I did not foresee the consequences of my actions to such an extent… Though, I suppose, this does solve your problem with that soap dodger; you did pour the punchbowl onto her after all.”, the alien muses with a twist of his thin lips that come close to a smile, but not quite. Tony wonders, for the umpteenth time that night, what Loki’s smile really looks like under all those layers.

(He almost saw it, he swears, when they were dancing.)

Ironman points a finger at the super villain.

“In your defense. She was about to shoot you.”

‘Thomas’ snorts and rolls his eyes.

“Ah, my hero. Won’t you sweep me into your arms and make me your wife?”

Tony scoffs, scratching his beard as feels his head beginning to throb again; it was times like these that he doubted his own genius, for while Loki has indeed prevented him from being raped by the russians - and had been a pretty sweet date (a true princess, really) up to the point where all hell broke loose - the whole crazy ordeal has left him an enemy of the russian maffia, which was not very good for his insurance, or his chances at life in general outside of his suit.

He should call Pepper or Happy, and tell them to at least get his portable suit to the nearest station, in case they’d meet up with their foreign friends, but he doesn’t even know where they are headed, having boarded the train in a last panicked attempt at escape; the scenery is but a black blur outside their window, a hungry darkness that stings at his heart. Perhaps he could use his phone to take a peek into the railway company’s systems; maybe in the case this is one of the advanced models, he can even redirect it’s course to somewhere more suitable, where they could bring him his suit…

… dammit, he needs a more portable version. Of course, he can’t wear it all the time… or maybe if he could shrink it to an even smaller size… perhaps if he rerouted the…

“Oh Audhumla, don’t stop.”, Loki sighs across him, and he almost asks what is he talking about when he realizes he has been massaging the feet in his lap, an absentminded action while sorting through his thoughts and designing new parts. Apparently, he was doing it quite magnificently too, judging by the relaxed state of the god across him.

He smiles. There is nothing evil about it, no.

“I wouldn’t dream of disappointing the magnificent Queen of the Drag, especially since I will be sleeping in their royal bed tonight.”

Loki’s head snaps to attention from where it has been lolling off into a half-slumber, green eyes wide as saucers.

“Say what?”

“I have organized crime on my heels and no protection. Or would you rather I call the Avengers and SHIELD and explain exactly how I ended up doing the tango with the Mistress of Misconduct? Or in the case I make it alive, enlighten poor Mrs. Robinson that she has a charming alien living under her roof, in both senses of the word?”, Tony drawls, and tries not to let a smirk ghost the edge of his mouth, eyes fixed to the small feet he is still kneading. He hears more than sees the other grit through his teeth; 

“Maybe I should just take that pretty thing from your chest and put it on my shelf. It’d make a lovely bookend.”

Tony laughs without sound, and smiles his most charming smile at the asgardian.

“In case of my sudden death, your address will be forwarded to Thor, the National Security, David Attenborough and your devotees/fangirls on the internet.”

The alien chokes, spluttering before kicking him in the stomach - really, after all the tender loving care he has given - one firm slender hand coming to grip his tie as he swings his feet off from Tony’s lap.

“You.”, he hisses, eyes furious emerald slits, “Are doing this all wrong. **I** am to do the dirty blackmailing, forcing you into unwanted situations, and you, the human, are to suffer my whims. This is supposed to be the Other. Way. Around.”

Abruptly, the door at the end of the wagon bursts open, and they find themselves at the receiving end of gunfire. Again.

\- - -

[SIDE A]

Old age has many drawbacks; aching joints, sicknesses, going deaf and blind and silly, and Mrs. Robinson is well acquainted with them all, but has long ago made her peace with her failing health - there is not much else one can do, but watch as time takes his toll on her body.

(The danger, she knows, is when one let’s him take it on her mind and soul.) 

Nevertheless, the lack of ability to sleep annoys her like nothing else. Sometimes, she stays up watching TV, or reading a good detective story, but often she finds herself too tired to do these yet not tired enough to drift off into slumber; these are the nights she spends laying awake and contemplating the world.

It often ends with talking to Thomas, who has a habit of creeping home at the oddest of hours. She doesn’t ask where he is off to, because young people are secretive and will be young people; as long as he pays the rent and doesn’t bring bad company, she is alright with whatever he is doing. He is a very intelligent young man anyway, and she can scarcely imagine him getting himself into trouble. Intelligent… no, sometimes, he is wise.

He has the wisdom of someone scared deep within their hearts. It’s not a ripe fruit yet; the wound is still healing, but when it patches up - if it patches up - he’ll known more than what’s written in his precious books.

Perhaps this was why she has taken him in, despite the fact he had no deposit or proof of being able to pay the rent; she has seen men in the war and after with those steeled jawlines and far-away eyes, yet nothing about Thomas could call a battle into mind. Indeed, he was a mystery, with eyes that understood what she meant when she talked about being old, - sometimes, when he talked, she’d get the strange and ridiculous impression of being _younger_ \- and a small hesitant smile that told her tales of betrayal unvoiced.

He is a most precious tenant.

“You had better be on your best behavior, Anton. Mrs. Robinson is a light sleeper.”

Mrs. Robinson smiles to herself, shifting beneath her covers to turn toward her slightly ajar door; she would have missed the quiet tinkering of the keys, along with the hushed voice of the young brit if his guest wasn’t so clumsy as to knock against something (perhaps the umbrella stand). Oh, she had wondered for so long now when this night would come - they have a betting pool with Margaret, which she had just won thanks to the thing between dear Anton’s legs - and is most satisfied with the ideal snooping possibility fate had dealt her.

“Oh, I guess the loud kinky sex is out of question then.”

She hears Thomas make a furious choking sound, followed by a low laugh from his fellow; oh, if only she were fifty years younger and he were not so inclined!

“Sod off, wanker.”, her tenant mutters as they make their way past her door; for a brief moment, it’s as though he is wearing a dress, but then again, she is not wearing her glasses and it’s dark; they haven’t bothered turning on the light.

For shame.

“What’s that, Geliebter?”

“You mong boffin, I hope one of your precious little contraptions blows you right up.”

Contraptions, huh? Now that’s just a little peculiar, looking like Tony Stark and making machines like Tony Stark… Mrs. Robinson decides to keep this in mind. She hears the door open to Thomas’s room, and catches one last sentence before it closes behind them.

“Weren’t you the one saying Mrs. Robinson is a light sleeper? I’m sure she’ll hardly appreciate your cursing* at this time of night.”

Oh how wrong ‘Anton’ is. (She sleeps like a baby.)

\- - -

[SIDE C]

Loki stares at what he knows to be his calendar on the wall. (It’s not like he adores fluffy, wide-eyed kittens; it was merely the only type of calendar available that could suit his tastes. Yes indeed.) He is tired, fed up and has work tomorrow - and not of the villainous kind either - and should be sleeping like a log; yet here he is, wide awake in his own bed, staring out of his head and listening to his clock tick.

Tony Stark shifts behind him, and the room fills with an eerie blue light. Again. He just can’t sleep like that.

Breathing hard through his nose in anger, he takes his revenge by hogging all the blankets, pulling them over himself until he is almost rolled up into a bundle, (this is how he actually sleeps on his own, but hush), and is most satisfied when his unwanted guest grumbles; he is less than satisfied however when a muscled arm reaches over and tries to take back what he has lost, because in effect it is almost like a cuddle; and Loki does not cuddle, not with Tony Stark.

“Go away, prat.”, he grouches, clutching at his blankets, wriggling about in an attempt to maintain his supremacy.

“Hey, it’s not like I’m having the time of my life here; your feet are cold, your bed is lumpy, and how can you tolerate all that noise coming from the street?”, he whispers in an aggravated manner, one feet clamping down on his, successfully immobilizing him long enough to grab back a smaller amount of the covers before the pygmy giant can brake free with a frustrated elbow into the other man’s stomach.

“I’m a frost giant, of course my feet are cold! And these are my beddings, my home, my downtime that you are stealing, I have work tomorrow, and you are a human torchlight!”

“I can’t really help that last part. It’s sort of keeping me alive, you know. Besides, I’m probably doing the world a favor if you are too tired tomorrow to go around causing havoc.”, the engineer hisses in his ear, and Loki is this close to giving up and murdering him in cold blood (haha), because he should not be that close to him, should not be yanking back the blanket with one firm motion and should not be here, _period_.

He whirls around to his other side, and finds himself face to face with Ironman.

“I’ll have you know that I have fifteen little preschoolers waiting to take me and each other apart tomorrow, and that it’s not fun for anyone if I am too tired to keep my eyes open.”, he hisses, pointing one finger at that annoying face, and goddam that light, he thinks, slapping a palm over it so at least it won’t shine into his face.

“Preschoolers? You mean you teach pre-K? That’s your civil job?”, Tony Stark says incredulously, eyes wide and mouth stuck somewhere between a laugh and a confused frown.

“Why, what did you think I did? Rob banks?”

Ironman doesn’t need to answer, for his face says it all. Of course; even he, with all his failings could only perceive Loki as a monster - why had he even hoped it would be any way else? (Maybe, that damned little voice in him says, because he enjoyed being a princess on the genius billionaire’s arm; enjoyed having someone who laughed at his jibes and did not say ‘silver tongue turn to lead’ but massaged his aching feet absentmindedly instead; enjoyed the illusion of honesty it brought him.) He is so stupid sometimes, he makes his own head hurt.

“Well… actually, I thought you might be conjuring up dollars or such. Or casting an illusion to make the little old lady believe you are paying her rent.”, something must be showing on his face, because the human’s expression changes into something he can’t quite make out in the dark, “Or… ah… be a fashion designer? That seems like your true calling. Or perhaps a personal assistant, you are real good at getting people to do what you want them to. Or a magician, with the whole white rabbit in a hat thing.”

“Go to hell, tosser.”, Loki sighs, shoving the other onto his back and turning around, facing away once more; he is exhausted, and far too tired to deal with Tony Stark and his brilliancy, his snark, the curve of his amused smirk, the sight of his muscled back and his built-in flashlight. He just needs to sleep.

Maybe for the next millennia.

(Maybe for forever.)

And finally, there is quiet and darkness; his unwanted guest doesn’t stir every few seconds and he can close his eyes and stay silent and still, focus on his breathing, slow down his heart rate, recite the sacred scriptures in his head (the familiarity of it lulls him), come to dangle between dream and reality…

… he falls asleep, and he dreams of Thors and fathers and falling through stars and eons and futures and pasts and blisses and horrors until he wakes with bones made of ice, shivers creeping beneath his skin and heartbeat small and fluttering like a songbird in the cage of his chest; his teeth rattle and his eyes ache as he stares into the emptiness of his room, illuminated in blue light.

An arm appears, pulls him backward against a chest (the light disappears) and there is warmth, so much that it feels like Muspell; he doesn’t find the strength to struggle.

He sleeps, dreamless.

\- - -

[SIDE A]

The next morning finds her cheerful and ready for action; sadly, unlike for Thomas last night, this action shall be her annual check-up at the hospital, filled with waiting and tests and waiting… But a positive outlook is always important, she reminds herself as she dresses, it can show up in one’s blood, so she ought not to mope too much about it. She stops to listen at her tenant’s door momentarily as she makes her way to her kitchen - there are no sounds of them being up, or thank the heavens _doing something_ (she may be wishing for the young man’s happiness, but she was still past her eighty-eth) - and even squints through the keyhole.

She can just about make out a cuddle, and smiles to herself. Good boy, Thomas, hang on to that man, he just might turn out to be a billionaire Ironman in a frog-suit. (If only he wasn’t a playboy.)

Humming merrily to herself as she makes breakfast, washes up and gets ready, she stops again by the room, knocking twice before she leaves; it’s their routine, and also some glorious chance at marking down details to share later with Margaret, who shall be coughing up some serious yarn thanks to this new bedwarmer of her tenant’s.

“Come in!”

“Thomas darling, I’m off to the - oh, why hello there.”, Mrs. Robinson tries her best at being surprised by the sight of ‘Anton’ (the fact that he is currently elbow-deep in the television set does not go unremarked), but isn’t sure how well she has managed that. Thomas steps out of the kitchenette with two mugs of coffee, and stops in shock.

“What are you doing to my telly?!”, he says with a gasp, almost distressed; the other man shrugs, not bothering to look up.

“Ah, na ja, the picture was fuzzy. Do you have some proper tools, mein kleines Nudelholz? I need-“

Thomas shakes his curly head, apparently in disbelief - and she can’t blame him - but smiles to herself regardless, eyes drifting about the room; there is nothing out of the ordinary, still little towers of books, still unmade bed, still… ah, Anton’s clothes from last night; that suit would be quite lovely, if it didn’t look like he’d done his military training in it… and is that the hem of a green dress peeking out from the wardrobe?

Oh my Thomas. What were you up to last night?

“How did you even take off-“

Her eyes drift back to ‘Anton’, who shoots him a serious, almost offended look, and it’s all the confirmation Mrs. Robinson needs, german accent or not, that she has the CEO of Stark Industries under her roof. 

“I always carry a screwdriver with me, mein Liebling.”, he says in a huff, and her young brit protégée rolls his eyes, turning back to her with a disbelieving look; she shakes her gray head in amusement as he sets one mug onto the coffee table, and lifts the other to his lips.

“Do not underestimate the passion a man has for his chosen trade, dear. It can be beyond reasonable limits… dare I say, a stark obsession.”, Anton’s nose twitches delightfully in the corner of her eye, oh my oh my, “Anyhow, I am off to the hospital. Have a good day, and no unprotected sex on my kitchen counter!”

Thomas chokes on his coffee, coughing loudly. (Mr. Stark seems to be on the verge of asking if safe sex is okay though.)

“Mrs. Robinson!”

“I know, I know, you are young and in love, you want to rush in; I’ve been there too, darling, in my day, believe you me, but AIDS is a serious thing!”, she says as she waves an index finger in his direction, enjoying his mortified expression (oh good heavens no, she didn’t do this just for that), “And you are a most admirable young man and a lovely tenant; I shall like to keep you around until I kick the bucket. Don’t worry, that can be any day now.”

Thomas smiles at her with that chiding expression, trying to wipe the horror from his young features.

“Bless you Mrs. Robinson for being so sweet, but don’t say such things. You have plenty of time!”

She huffs a laugh. Young people never believe you can hear the ragged breaths of death behind your back.

“Well, we shall see what the good doctors say about that. Behave, the two off you!”

And so she leaves, noting the half-hearted wave from ‘Anton Kraftig’ who seems much too pre-occupied with the television set, conveniently obscuring his face; nevertheless, she is quite satisfied with the color of red she had managed to install on her tenant’s face. (She dotes on him a little too much, she knows - but she is too old to care if she is thought to be crazy or not. Yes, to hell with it all. She just might die today.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I admit to changing this from the original posted at LJ when it turned out that I speak even less German than I thought. Still, I have my Nudelholz.


	4. But I guess he canʻt help it

[SIDE B]

“I think she knows who I am.”, Tony Stark mutters as he chances a look at Loki, trying to detect if he is still as grouchy as he was earlier - earlier here being the time when, in a supposedly ‘panicked and unthinking first reaction’, he had pushed the still sleeping Ironman off the bed and to the floor, ending his short career in the super-villain’s bed with an unceremonious thump and a bump at the back of his head. Needless to say, this situation was most definitely not made better by the fact that he in turn knew a good set of things to call the pretty blue princess - in quite a lot of languages - upon this rather rude method of ending his slumber, and was thus bestowed with a magnificent pillow to his face, accompanied by some other elegant choice words in return; this scene of their tragicomedy was continued with an angry retreat to the bathroom, threats of castration and world-domination hissed at him while he attempted to crawl back to bed and try to fall asleep again.

Oh Dream! What cruel mistress you are, escaping so quickly from bed!

( … Tony heaves a sigh. He also suspects their fiasco had much to do with him having held the alien throughout the night, a quiet tenderness he doesn’t want to admit to himself, because Tony doesn’t cuddle, especially not with Loki Odinson. No, especially not. 

… (another sigh) …

Yet the fact of the matter is, he woke up to the room temperature’s radical drop and to the violent shivers next to him, a lean form pressing in on itself, so tight and tense and he knew what it meant: he didn’t even have to think about it, just reached out and breathed. And to be honest, he would have never thought Loki would have nightmares like that, not after all this time; but then again, he has no idea what a wormhole feels like either. ~~He imagines it to be a little like shards in the heart though~~.)

“Oh, I wonder!”, the alien snaps, his thin eyebrows rising in a sarcastic expression, “Do you think it might have had something to do with the fact you were elbow-deep in my television set?”

The engineer narrows his eyes, and they stare at each other like two guys from a western, all squinty-eyed and menacing with the wind blowing in the deserted street, sun shining far too brightly, except that he is in his boxers and Loki is wearing kitten slippers, and neither of them has a gun or a cowboy hat on him at the moment, and there is no easily recognizable tune playing at all either. He plugs back the machine without breaking said eye contact anyway, and stands up to stretch and pop his shoulders loudly, slow and deliberate as he takes the few heavy steps to the coffee at table. He smacks his lips before smiling disarmingly. (He draws.)

“So sex on the counter or sex on the sofa?”

To his true surprise, Loki goes absolutely red in the face at that. Marvelously, spectacularly red too, trying in vain to mask it by glaring (thankfully only metaphorical) daggers, his thin hands clutching the mug; briefly he wonders if this is because he had entertained such indecent thoughts about Tony, but quickly dismisses the idea. It’s nigh impossible. (And the crowd cheers, Iron Lasso wins the day and the pretty bar girls.)

“I am not argr, Stark, and this is your only warning!”, the alien with the bad bed hair hisses at him, and somewhere in his thick head he has a hunch it’s the hiss of someone who has grown used to a particular insult, “It’s bad enough that I catered to your whims last night anyway.”

(Unfortunately, it is a universal constant that if anything, he is a total bastard.) So Tony Stark runs his hand through his hair, lifting his drink and taking that one step from the desk to come face to face with the otherwise impossibly strong and sometimes seemingly insane enemy who he is currently teasing and sharing morning coffee with after having outrun the russian maffia together last night, and has it in him to grin.

“My, you make avoiding certain death together sound as though I had my wicked ways with you. Are you sure that’s not what you want unconsciously? You know, a freudian slip.”

He does a little growl too, but Loki is only giving him a rather unamused glare with lips drawn tightly together. Ironman runs his fingers along the edges of the core through his borrowed t-shirt (Marvin the Martian) as he sips his drink and debates his next course of action to take before the frost giant becomes seriously fed up enough to murder him in - excuse the pun - cold blood, address forwarding or not. 

“I haven’t the slightest idea why Mrs. Robinson thinks I’d sleep with men,” the extraterrestrial huffs, interrupting his thoughts, “but even if I did, I sure wouldn’t sleep with a short one like you.”, and here the damned alien pulls himself out, pointedly raising his chin and looking down at him. 

Oh. Oh god, he was still alive and he shot him in the back. Iron Lasso falls to his knees. The bastard.

Tony bristles, hardly managing to swallow his coffee, his next jest disappearing along with the dark liquid down his throat, burning all the way.

“I am not short.”, he whispers furiously, “Sure, compared to your also alien huge brother and super-soldier Steve, maybe; but I’ll have you know I am a perfectly good height for a normal human male. Also _very attractive_.”

Loki smiles, an evil, self-satisfied twist of his lips that is not really a real thing, combing his long pale hand through his locks in a manner similar to the other’s earlier action; a mock. It makes Ironman itch, the same unwise and ‘totally harmful from an evolutional point of view’ itch that propelled him to keep talking back when the other’s eyes glowed with an eerie blue light, standing in his office in full asgardian gear, telling him he had an army - that itch that had him defenestrated. 

Alas, the summary of his life: Tony Stark had always lacked self-control and self-preservation.

“Besides”, Tony says as smugly as he can, which is pretty smug because he is a genius/billionaire/playboy/philanthropist,” according to most of your adoring fangirls, I’d still top the hell out of you, despite our differences in height. That is to say, you are so my bitch.”, and he really shouldn’t enjoy neither the sound of the pseudo-brit’s choke nor the small horrified ‘what’, but he does anyway, because it’s victory. 

And ‘Anton’ loves to win.

\- - -

[SIDE A]

She sits, paper clutched in her old, wizened hands and stares at the motifs of her carpet, eyes tracing the colors and the lines as though she is seeing it for the first time, even though it has been on her floor for the last ten years at the very least. How Mr. Robinson had loved to sit at the other side, in his blue armchair reading the paper…! She can still see the indents it had left on it, engraved like memories into the mind; dimming but unmistakably there.

She misses him right now. 

Misses him very much indeed, for Mr. Robinson was not only a wise man, but her husband; years they had spent in love and hatred, kissing and bickering whilst raising children and building a home, and those many beautiful years chiseled away bit by bit the walls around their hearts, and they never quit, never gave up on their matrimony, so that they received the gift many foolish young think is given by simply taking vows: they had become husband and wife. She could count on the twist of his lips and the twinkle of his eyes, his harsh words and kind whispers to ease her troubles and brighten her days - until he left.

Well, she tells herself its better to say he is waiting for her to hurry the (=%+”!) up already, because that’s how he would have said it, and Mrs. Robinson has thought herself well-prepared for this inevitable move… yet it seems this wasn’t so. She sits still, staring at that awful piece of paper - a damned death sentence - and wonders if she has the courage to do this the hard way, instead of flinging herself out the window or taking a whole bottle of her pills (isn’t that ironic, she thinks, death by medicine). She wonders how she’ll tell her children, or how can she face the look, that gleam in their eyes; how will she tell them not to cry, when she herself can barely stop the shiver and ache that runs up and down her spine, and is barely convinced she isn’t crying right now.

She is going to die in a couple of months. Slow and painful, damn them. Damn them to hell.

“Mrs. Robinson? Is everything alright?”

Mrs. Robinson shudders, and looks up to see Thomas leaning in at the door of her living room, still in his coat - probably just arrived back home -, with a look of concern on his smooth young face. Oh, how she envies him for it, for the years he still has, the moments, the love, the laughter - the pain, the tears, the sorrow - the life he will live. She wants to live it too; shakily, she waves a withered hand to him, wiping at her face to make sure there are no tears, but her cheek is already wet. 

The poor young thing, she is going to have to kick him out, because she does not want him finding her cold body one fine crisp morning, no.

“What’s wrong?”, Thomas says, tall form stepping in, alien in her room of antiquities in his young fashion, but soft and quiet, almost reassuring; his brows run together in confusion, crumpling his forehead. Before she can stop him, he is squatting by her chair, one smooth hand resting on her armrest, inches from her tired old things.

She shakes her head, avoiding his gaze.

“Just capitalism, dear. I haven’t the dollars to pay for my life, so all there is left is to pray.”, she bites, huffing as she shuffles around for a tissue, wiping her face again, reminding herself that it’s old and wrinkled and maybe the time has come after all, “I’m sorry to say that you should start looking for a new place.”

The brit doesn’t reply, doesn’t move when Mrs. Robinson throws the damn paper onto the drawer next to her, and heaves herself out of her armchair, joints aching and body trembling, and shuffles toward her bedroom without another word; he doesn’t say anything, just stares at her with eyes that are impossible to read.

\- - - 

[SIDE B]

It’s been a week since his fall-out with the russians, and he is thankfully still pretty much alive. Of course, living with superheroes probably improves his chances a great deal, but it’s not like Tony Stark hasn’t been taking precautions by his own methods: his mansion has gone from mildly safe to armed to the teeth, which some might call paranoia, but which he calls sleeping at night without his suit on, and all the berating from Pepper can’t convince him otherwise. (It doesn’t help that Clint and Natasha keep telling him these stories about the KGB, while often remembering various pieces of information about russian crime lords, almost always when he is beginning to feel safe, sprawled in front of their TV or pondering on going out for doughnuts.) 

However, even though he has been interrogated by his friends time and time again about how exactly had he ended up in such calamity, he had not confessed to the guilty pleasure of taking Loki as his date. He has a feeling it would not sit well with SHIELD or his super buddies, and he’d rather not see if Thor thinks this constitutes as asking for her hand, what with all the action-packed escape and sleeping together in the innocent sense of the word. Not that Loki is unattractive - not that he thinks he is attractive - and certainly not that he misses him - it’s not like he thinks about small feet and the conversation - not that there is another ball and he needs to take someone but there are _russians_ out there and -

His jumping thoughts are interrupted by a loud clatter from behind him, and he whirls around, dropping his hammer in surprise when he sees a black cat sitting on his helmet; it sits rather imperiously too, throned on the Mark V head he left on one of his workbenches, the gauntlet now dropped on the floor - and he might really be growing paranoid, because he swears the cat is _smiling_ at him.

“What… who let you in here?”, he mumbles, disturbed by the feline’s emerald eyes, and makes shooing gestures at it as he steps closer, but it merely curls it’s delicate tail and purrs up at him, “Go on, get out of here. This is no place for a cat.”

Maybe it’s one of his super-buddies’, Tony thinks, he can imagine Natasha or Steve going about bringing home strays without his prior consent (he pegs Thor as a dog-person though). He sighs, making a mental note to tell them yet again that this is still his home dammit, and grabs the collar of his tank top to lift the material off his sweat-drenched skin in the hopes he’ll cool. (There is a particular part of armor he needed to blacksmith himself, an add-on he had developed recently, and for which he had his smithy re-installed.) It’s a pretty cute cat though, and he puts a gentle hand on the animal’s head, scratching behind it’s ears after a moment’s hesitation. He smiles at it.

“I didn’t know you were a craftsman.”, the cat says suddenly in the manner of small talk, “A most delightful surprise.”

… in the manner of small talk.

His mind shuts down for a few seconds there, his eyes bugging out a little as his hand freezes, staring down at the animal in disbelief. Has he been drinking/working too much again? He shuffles the possibility of hallucination around his head, almost managing to convince himself to just go to bed, when it begins to mewl in an aggravated manner, 

“Oh Audhumla, why do you always stop…?”

Impossible. It should be damn impossible, he thinks to himself, but bends down just slightly anyway, whispering “Loki…?” as though he is afraid his sanity might desert him if he heard him talking to a cat. The only thing worse would probably be standing alone in the dark with a hard-on in his lab.

The feline rolls it’s eyes, sighing.

“What, you know any other skilled shape-shifters who could sneak past your almost adequate defense mechanisms, boffin?”

Admittedly, he does not, but that doesn’t make it any less unsettling that there is a black pseudo-british alien-cat sitting on his helmet who has tried to kill him a couple of times before. He tries not to show it, suddenly uncomfortably aware of how sweaty and ‘haven’t slept in days’-horrible he is looking. Talk about unexpected visitors.

“Shall I get your royal Catness some cream and a scratching post to enjoy himself with, or are you just here for a tummy rub, Lokitty?”

“I’m here to make you a deal, ‘Anton’ darling.”, the alien says with what is definitely a smirk, throwing his small head back haughtily against his palm, and all Tony can think of is how terribly wrong and right this is, and that he really shouldn’t be resuming petting, “Though I do thank you for the show of hospitality.”

“A deal? Really?”

“Yes. I want you to pay for Mrs. Robinson’s health care.”, the alien replies softly, opening his striking emerald eyes to look right at him. Tony Stark ponders for a moment, his hand moving to smooth down the fur on the cat’s back, trying to resist the urge of swooping it into his arms, his brain apparently having a hard time connecting the image of the feline with the thin figure of the extra-terrestrial, and hey, he can’t really blame it. 

But this is an interesting development, this health care.

“And then you’ll do what?”, he asks, almost humorously, and watches the ears twitch backwards.

“I won’t tell anyone it was me you were with.”

Oh. He was expecting something along the lines of ‘won’t murder you most painfully’ or ‘won’t tell Thor you disgraced me so that he’ll smite you with his hammer’, but he supposes this is more-or-less reasonable too. Not very solid though, and he spares a moment for thinking this might be Loki really asking for help in his round-about way. (He knows what it’s like, strawberry apologies and all that.) He brings up his other hand to cup the small head with both.

“Tell you what, Catherine,” he says softly, “You come with me to the next high-class event to dance and drink good scotch while snarking and generally being fabulous bitches, and we are even.”

The cat stares at him doubtfully.

“I believe I am the one dictating the terms here, Tünnes; aside which, I have no understanding of why you wish me to do such a thing yet again. Surely, humiliating me once was enough?”

“You can come however you want. I just want you to keep me company, preferably without making me some new lethal enemies.”

Loki stares up at him, and if he found his expressions hard to read in the guise of a human, he finds it even harder as a cat; he does’t even have a clue, not from the ear and tail twitching.

“Pay her bills.”, he says finally, turning away and jumping off the table - except nothing lands on the floor.


	5. Love works in mysterious ways after all

[SIDE B]

Tony Stark comes around to an aching head and a tell-tale severe pounding in his left shoulder that speaks of serious injuries, ranging from life-threatening to limb-loss-specials and strictly always entailing angry tears from Pepper, and groans. (Whether it’s from pain or his own stupidity, he will leave to ponder, but a few choice curse words also leave his mouth at this point.) He moves his fingers experimentally, thinks ‘please no I can’t work on my stuff with only one hand and then I might as well kill myself, but oh wait I could probably build a prothesis with a built-in bottle opener’ in a sudden, almost drunken rush, and to his relief finds that they are definitely still attached to him, even if they do send sharp jolts of pain back to that thing between his ears. Hissing and cracking open his eyes wearily, Ironman frowns when he doesn’t recognize the ceiling rotating in a most unnatural manner - there is a flash of panic (lights and scorching hot and freezing cold and blood so much blood and screams and _shards_ ), making him gulp in a few loud of breaths of air -, but then the sound of quiet british cursing reaches his ears. He blinks rapidly, mouth forming a crooked smile when he realizes he is in Loki’s room/apartment, apparently bleeding on the poor bastard’s precious sheets. 

(And this whole thing is getting really demented, because he feels safe in the company of Loki.)

But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks?

As if sensing his bleary gaze, the alien looks over his shoulder for a moment, kneeling before a yanked-open drawer in that otherwise ridiculously good-looking green dress that rides up his silky white thighs, (and he really shouldn’t be thinking like that, because he is not gay, thank you), before returning to the frantic rummaging through it’s contents. Ironman tries to remember what exactly happened that had them end up here with the super villain looking so disheveled and him injured from a charity ball, but as of yet his mind is still doing funny circles and whirls, his throat dry and scratchy, body aching.

“What happened-“

“Don’t talk, or I’ll smite you instead.”, the pygmy giant cuts in angrily, standing up in one graceful motion and coming towards him with something clutched in his slender hands. Tony obediently shuts his mouth, (villainous powerful alien is still a villainous powerful alien even in a pretty drag, and he is still injured), noticing that rolls of bandages and a wet towel have been tossed next to him onto the bed; he tries to sit up and wiggle his head into a position to take a look at his wound, but the other hisses at him in fury, smacking him on the head with an open palm. He lies back down, surprised and shoulder beginning to throb like hell.

“Hey, that was totally uncalled for!”

Loki shoots him a glare while he tears at his dress shirt - Tony suppresses a comment along the lines of ‘slow down Tiger’, because he is at his mercy or whatever -, and untangles a piece of tightly wrapped cloth that had probably been holding off the bleeding, and which, judging by the color, used to be part of the villain’s dress. He wipes expertly at the now naked skin with the cold towel, sending shivers down Tony’s spine and prompting goosebumps, before he unceremoniously tosses it all aside, unscrewing the ceramic medicine vial with a loud pop. 

“What was totally uncalled for”, he says suddenly through gritted teeth, emerald eyes _almost_ making Tony feel bad about whatever it is that happened, “, was ruining my fancy dress by bleeding your boffin arse all over it after getting yourself skewered like a kebab.” 

Tony Stark winces for the barest of seconds. Ah, yes, now that the villainous pre-school teacher mentions it, he can definitely recall some sort of fight; a few idiots trying to get some easy cash from the man in the fancy suit and his pretty date. But why were they walking through a park-? His muddled thoughts are interrupted and momentarily forgotten when Loki pours whatever it is in the vial into his wound, making him hiss and his eyes bug. It’s like there are tiny copper insects chewing away at his flesh, drinking his blood and eating away to the marrow of his bones, generating heat until it feels like he is on fire, and he bites his lip and grips the sheet with his good hand, screwing his eyes shut, hoping this isn’t the frost giant trying to off him finally. 

(… But then again, it doesn’t quite make sense for him not to be doing that either; they are still enemies or something. Right?)

Then, abruptly, there is a chill radiating from the spot, a glorious refreshing cold that numbs all the pain where the hot ache of the wound was just a moment ago. He opens his eyes to see Loki lift his head from his shoulder, blue skin and delicate markings running across it and eyes red as life itself, and he thinks

“Fuck”, you are gorgeous, watching heartbroken as the skin turns pink and eyes become green again, with mascara smeared and one lonely earring hanging in place, and he is so delirious right now, isn’t he? The other frowns at him, forehead wrinkling in the expression.

“What is it? Does it still hurt?”

“No. No, it’s… I can’t feel it.”

“Then why did you feel the need to curse? Really, humanity needs a refresher in manners!”, the alien says with a frustrated huff as he reaches for the bandages and unrolls them with practiced ease; he carefully begins to wrap it about Tony’s shoulder, long pale fingers working diligently and he shakes his head, that one earring swaying, “You are the worst knight in shining armor I’ve ever seen.”

Ah. 

Yes, he supposes he is. (He fails at this too, hah.) They dumped the boring charity ball and opted for a movie instead - he couldn’t remember the last time he was in a proper theatre with other average people eating popcorn and drinking soda, and Loki has simply never done it, so they spent the rest of the evening as Anton and Catherine, commenting on the new Sherlock Holmes movie under their breaths, and taking a stroll through the park to clear their heads afterwards. Which was probably not a magnificent idea, because despite the weather being nice and their spirits high, they ended up being robbed; he had managed to punch out two of the hooded youths, but the third had a knife on him. A proper right hook after that, and his vision went black.

“Hey, I tried my best.”, Tony huffs, trying to sit up despite Loki’s attempts at pushing him back down, determined to stop all this manhandling (because he is a hero for the sake of engineering, and he is not going to be nursed by a super villain, however utterly fascinating and but-I’m-a-grown-man-sexuality-confusing he may be), shoulder injury or not; he manages to win, probably by sheer force of will and the fatigue that sits in the trickster’s eyes. He hunches, careful not to move his arm, watching as the other works, and he can see now that (his favorite) green dress is totally ruined: not only is it missing a long stretch of fabric that was torn off, but his blood is smeared all over it… at least, he hopes it’s only his.

“They learned their lesson; those children won’t be ruining my evenings anytime soon.”, Loki says with an evil twist of his thin lips that’s somewhere between a mock and a snarl, and Tony winces, not quite sure what his pretty blue fairytale princess is implying, and even less certain that he really wants to know what progressed after his loss of consciousness.

The alien finishes up, grabs the towel and what had remained of his shirt from beside them, and Tony lies back down, watching him as he disappears from his pheripheric vision to the bathroom. He wonders why Loki hadn’t just left him to bleed out on his own.

\- - -

[SIDE C]

Loki stares, yet again, at what he knows to be his kitten calendar on his wall, contemplating his own sanity in the dim blue light that keeps him awake. He should have just left the ungrateful bastard to bleed out on his own, and then he could sleep without a stupid human torchlight ruining his night; he really should have, so why didn’t he? What made him even remotely think that bringing a bleeding Avenger home while his landlady was away for a night at the hospital was a good idea? Certainly, taking him to an emergency room would have resulted in all manners of uncomfortable questions, with the great chance of the other heroes and villains finding out he’d been sneaking off to play princess -

He twitches, grabbing more firmly onto the pillow.

(What is it, Maremother, doesn’t your son need feeding?)

He knows he shouldn’t enjoy prancing about in a female body, should not revel in the talk and jokes they share, should not take pleasure in dancing to the midgardian tunes with him, and should not wallow in the way Tony Stark treats him like he is the only being left in the universe whenever he is in high heels. But he can’t help it! Can’t help it, because Tony Stark knows who he is, if not to the deepest pits of his heart but at least to what he is afraid of; he knows he is a jotün, knows what he has done (he has thrown him out a window, really), and still laughs with him instead of at, and that…

… that makes Loki a little _desperate_. 

He hates both him and himself for it, (fie, fie, fie!), and he swears to himself for the umpteenth time he is only doing it for Mrs. Robinson, because she doesn’t ask questions, her rent is tolerable and is a generally pleasant human being. (Not because he is attached to her in any sort of way. No.) He shivers, curses life and stars and hearts, curses himself, tells himself that he is better than this, but feels himself spiraling down the road he never wants to take again anyway, and tries desperately to concentrate on something else instead. He hears his uninvited guest shift behind him, no doubt the dull pain of his injury keeping him awake.

He has half a mind to suffocate him.

“Can’t sleep?”, he says, more to his pillow than to Ironman, an angry hiss quiet enough not to wake him should he actually be asleep.

“Nope. Trying to solve the miracle of how am I sleeping in a stranger’s bed twice in a row without having had sex.”

 _Should have let him bleed out, the loathsome paynim_. 

Loki breaths in sharply between his teeth and kicks back into Tony Stark’s unsuspecting shin, enjoying the yelp and cursing it earns him, humming in satisfaction. His mood instantly sours though when the blankets get promptly pulled off of him, and he whirls around, staring furiously at that damned cheeky grin on that damned face, and grabbing onto His covers, pulls back stubbornly. He isn’t expecting as much resistance from Ironman as he is showing, seemingly just as determined to win this fight, and his grip is stronger than he would have given him credit for; they tug the poor fabric back and forth between them, Loki unable to use more force in fear he’d just rip the thing (and he definitely doesn’t have the financial frame for a new set this month).

“Really, that was a compliment! I don’t think this has ever happened to me before. You are my first, babydoll…”, his lips settle into a sharp and playful line, making Loki itch terribly and whine inside his head. Frustrated at himself and at the damned human, he glares and seethes, 

“I’m cold, wanker, so give me back my blankets before I do something you will regret.”

Tony Stark laughs softly, his features almost cruel in his own light.

“You can always cuddle up to me if you are so cold, I don’t mind.”, he cajoles, and Loki’s breath hitches, his annoyance disappearing and making way for sorrow and fury settling cold into the pit of his stomach in an instant; it resonates throughout his body, making his ears toll and hand jitter nervously on the fabric, the sheet slipping noisily to both their surprises (and then there is that fear he doesn’t admit, not after all this time, not after what happened). His following half-shout is far too loud after their whispers, and he regrets it the instant the syllables leave his lips, 

“I’m not argr, Stark!”

And Tony Stark, oh, he stares at him, face stuck between that mocking leer and honest disbelief; Loki curses him yet again, because he knows this man in his bed is one of the few men who will never miss when his mask cracks, will not be deterred by a shout, will see right through it, damn him, damn him, damn him.

“What is this argr?”, Tony Stark says, shifts so there is more light from the reactor flushing their faces, (he could just smite him in agony) and grabs his arm when he tries to turn back around in an attempt to ignore his question. “You should explain if you want me to stop.”

Oh, death do strike him! The frost giant breathes deeply through his nose, once, twice, tries desperately to come up with a way of smooth-talking himself out of it, of just going to sleep while avoiding this conversation; he tries to not be upset, but he is tired, he is miserable, and he damn well thought the fragile piece of sass across him was going to die on his sofa tonight, ( ~~and this was only upsetting because disposing of corpses is such a nerve-wracking hassle~~ ).

(And it’s so dark in this room, a menacing chill hiding in the corners.)

“It’s…”, he tries, steadies his breath that seeks to betray him, “, being the woman.” 

There. He said it. Hesitant, he searches his unwanted bedmate’s face for the inevitable glint of understanding, the laugh and the cry of what Midgardian’s call this, hoping they can skim over this quickly, but to no such luck. His companion’s face remains a questioning mask. 

“Really. Using magic like a woman. Loving like a woman. Being shameful.”

He still frowns in confusion, and Loki wants to throw a fit now, because he **must** be playing with him again.

“You mean being a homosexual.”(, he continues when he sees Loki draw his eyebrows together in a show of incomprehension and anger,) “Two men loving each other romantically.”

Must he spell it out? He hisses in frustration, grasping his pillow. Does he feel no honorable debt to torture him so?

“No. Being the woman in that relationship. Being the lesser. Being like a woman.” (Why doesn’t he want to understand? He shuts his eyes and frowns, giving up and trying to turn back around again, but only managing to lie back onto his back before the strong grip on his arm stops him; his eyes pop open the moment he feels the human’s weight shift, clumsy from his injury, the radiating warmth floating closer, and is stunned by the look of anger he finds on his face.)

“What? You aren’t even - Okay, look, this here, this is Earth, this is New York of the United States of America. You are here, your lumpy sofa is here, and you know what? That’s not how we roll here. There is nothing wrong with love, no matter what shape or form, nothing wrong with being gay or lesbian, nothing wrong with being transgendered, with being intersex, with being who you are; anyone tries to tell you otherwise, I am personally going to kick their balls up to their guts. There is nothing shameful about it, nothing wrong with it; love is love. It’s that simple. There is no such a thing as ‘argr’ or whatever, and you can be damn sure I’ll piss on whoever tries to call you that. You understand?!”

The room fills with the deep silence of hesitation, a skittish shift of green eyes and soft breath, the pull of eyebrows into confusion. Loki’s mind, murky from fatigue scrambles for understanding - he has no idea what this gay or other things are, does not understand this very alien reaction, (how could he say something so opposite to what he is? He is a warrior, he fights alongside Thor!), cannot quite phantom the reasons for the fierce look of ire on Tony Stark’s face, but his heart flutters at the emotion, however perplexing the thought is, that someone would reject this so vehemently, would, in an odd sense protect him - not that he is argr, and not that he needs protecting.

“Not quite.”, he answers honestly, and after a moment, adds, “But thank you. I see you meant no harm at all.”

(Later, he sleeps deeply and pleasantly, blue light and all.)

\- - -

[SIDE A]

“Are you sure?”, she says again in her disbelief, and the nurse on the other side of the line chatters happily that yes, she is quite sure, and asks her yet again for when would she like to schedule the appointment. Mrs. Robinson blinks at her TV, watching the muted figures move across the screen - another detective show - and tries to make herself believe this is happening. (It’s a little better than telling herself she must be delusional.)

How is it even possible that she suddenly has this chance to live? Does she want it? ~~Of course she wants it, she wants to see her grandchildren grow, graduate and marry, wants to boast with them to Margaret, wants to see her children continue to be happy, be happier, wants to love because she knows by now that is all that really matters anyway.~~ She decides that maybe it is better to think about it all later, in the quiet hours of the night when she can’t sleep, and just go ahead and schedule that appointment now before calling everyone in existence whose phone number she knows to tell them about the wonderful news. Yes, it is a brilliant course of action, and so this is what she does, even forgetting to watch her favorite soap in the process, chattering away long into the evening. 

(It’s one of the happiest days of her life.)

She finishes the last phone call just as Thomas marches in the front door, obviously quite aggravated with whatever - or whomever. Experience with the tougher (or often, dumber) sex makes her think man-problems when she sees that cross frown on his face, and she scrambles for the memory of Tony Stark’s alias before her tenant disappears along with the snooping (snooping? Oh no darling, she meant comforting) possibility.

“Problems, dear?”, she says, hobbling over to the hallway where the young man is practically tearing his shoes off of himself, frustrated when the shoelaces won’t budge; it is a rather discerning sight to be honest, because she has never seen him so openly angry before, such emotions always masked under courtesy and educated composure. Partly why he is a lovely tenant.

“Oh, there are no problems. There is just one, and the git’s name is Anton.”, he shrugs the coat off vehemently now that the shoes are taken care of, “And the next time I see him, I am going to bloody murder that insufferable boffin arse.”

Mrs. Robinson shuffles closer and pats his arm gingerly, making Thomas’ frenzied movements still in an instant - he is such a sweet young thing - and she smiles a knowing little smile up at that thin face.

“How about I make you a cup of tea? I have some wonderful news to share with you, Thomas.”

There is a moment of uncertainness passed between them before he smiles, slow and hesitant at first, but real at last. He is quite handsome like that, and it’s not like Mrs. Robinson hasn’t been fond of him so far, but she is full of utterly insane grandmotherly feelings when he says quietly, “Bless you, Mrs. Robinson.”

\- - -

[SIDE C]

Loki is just about to say his goodbyes to his last child when he sees, from the corner of his eyes, the man he does not want to meet for the rest of eternity as Thomas appear at the gate. His mood instantly plummets, but he keeps his smile plastered on, mentally cursing all the while and regretting the fact that he is surrounded by the other teachers, the children and their parents, and is thus unable to just _blast_ Tony Stark off the face of the earth with a well-aimed burst of magic. It’s not that he particularly cares about most of the bystanders, but setting up an identity is just too much hassle nowadays, and the brats…, well, they give him precious ideas, like turning things into ice cream and such. So instead of doing anything lethal, he waves one last little wave to Rebecca and promptly turns on his heel, determined to avoid the other man until his deathbed, thank you very much, or perhaps kill him for good later when he isn’t surrounded by tiny earthlings he actually likes.

“Amore mio! Please wait for me! Gattino, you must not be this way! I brought flowers, scusi, for you bello!”

… But of course, Tony Stark is a total bastard, Loki thinks with an irritated roll of his eyes. His loud, accented shouts guarantee the watching eyes of their peers, cutting him off from a smooth escape; he halts for moment, thinks about turning around and giving the human a piece of his mind in furious whispers, or just taking over his wits or something, but then decides that retreating into the empty classroom is wiser course of action. The others will just think he doesn’t want a scene - which he really doesn’t - and he will have the privacy needed to at the very least castrate the idiot catching up to him in peace. So steeling his face, he strides inside, well aware of the gaze of his coworkers following him and ‘Antonio’ behind him. (He makes a mental note to blackmail and threaten all staff afterwards into silence.) Finally, the door shuts and the lock clicks, and Loki spins around, arms crossed and lips moving before Ironman even has a chance to take a breath.

“Putting aside the fact that the skin on your face must be unbelievably thick, showing up after what happened last time, you’ve really gone too far by coming to the school. You should consider yourself lucky I value this identity much more than to hang you by your guts right this instant.”

Tony Stark, cradling an obnoxiously large bouquet in his arms (red and blue roses, by Audhumla) shrugs while trying to look apologetic at the same time; it doesn’t really work, and serves only to make Loki’s blood boil further.

“Listen, I lost you, and there was this gorgeous lady throwing herself at me. I thought you went home.”

He grits his teeth; somewhere he thinks that he really shouldn’t be making more of a fool of himself by caring so much, but the poisonous feeling is embittering his chest, the venom killing the tentative sense of calm he had acquired over the past months; he narrows his eyes and snarls his lips at him.

“No, I was waiting for you like the idiot I am, laughed at by every stupid cow with enough sense to put two and two together.”, he hisses as he steps closer, because he either does that or screams at the top of his lungs, and he much rather hiss, watch the minute pull and twist of the muscles of Tony Stark’s face, getting under his skin if for nothing else than to scare him. Damn bastard deserves to feel threatened, damn right he should feel threatened, Loki was a monster, a frost giant, a villain and a trained warrior; he has been smiting things since he was a young lad - since his first rite of passage, when they had their first kill - and he could take this stupid human apart with a pencil if he felt like it, all fragile skin and tender meat, he could tear him apart with his hands, and damn right that Tony Stark should remember that, should remember his grip on his throat and the fall and shatter of glass when he looks into his eyes.

The engineer hesitates, and Loki can see these thoughts rolled about for a bit before Ironman soldiers on, and if he were less mad he’d actually admire either the stupidity or the heart of this human, so arrogant and obnoxious in the face of the danger that is the pissed off frost giant inches from him.

“Alright, alright.”, Tony Stark says quietly, shifting the flower into one hand so he can put the other up in his defense, “I was in error, okay? I should have let you know, but damn it Loki, it would help if I’d know your phone number. We can’t all teleport and mind instant message you know.”

Loki huffs, rolling his eyes and balling his fists, his nails digging into his palms, “Excuses. Go find yourself someone else to tag along to your parties. I am done, Stark.”

He is surprised by the troubled choke that follows, mostly because it makes it seem like the billionaire would actually miss his company, (he is very doubtful of that, he is a monster after all,) and manages to not react too wildly to the sudden finger Tony points at his chest or the air of victory as he says,

“You can’t. I still have your address.”

He swats the hand, satisfied with the hurt yelp the human makes, and growls.

“I’ll move.”

And he almost laughs despite himself at the face Tony makes at that - somewhere between horror and anger and despair, then relief when he notices he actually has a huge posy in his hands, which he thrusts forward to Loki all of a sudden -, “Come on, don’t be like that, it was a one time thing. There is no need to make such rash and unmodifiable decisions. Do you know how long it took me to find your place without actually alerting SHIELD? Or worse, Pepper? You can’t put me through all that again!”

(He tries to squash the feeling of happy that lights up in his chest.)

“Listen, I’ll take you to dinner as an apology, alright? There is this fine place, they have three Michelin stars and everything; and don’t give me that look, I’ve seen you raiding the buffet tables. I’ll pay, I’ll pay your rent, hell, I’ll pay your everything, just don’t - don’t go. Please.”

… Please. He said please, like…

Loki scratches his palm instead of moving his facial muscles. There is something about that little blurted please that calms the rage drumming in his chest, honest and something he doesn’t want to think about, because they both share it; it’s why they really keep doing this, these galas and half-assed matches of wits they call a conversation, why he doesn’t mind as much as he should when Tony Stark wakes in his bed and why the engineer fixing his fridge (‘God of mischief my ass, god of accidentally breaking things’) is possible at all. He shifts his weight and rolls his eyes before fixing Tony with an unimpressed stare, so as to not betray his sudden change of heart; he enjoys the hint of desperation in the superhero’s eyes, watches him squirm before taking the bouquet (and smelling the roses) after moments of silence.

He has always been a soft-hearted fool.

“Why not?”, Loki mutters, watching intently through half-lidded eyes the way the other shifts, scratching his beard in discomfort.

“Because you understand.”, Tony Stark mumbles back, and Loki decides he is absolutely famished after all.

\- - -

[SIDE A]

She jolts awake. Her skin is already sticky from sweat, her heart thundering a mad beat in her chest; it’s the dead of the night. (The dead.)

Her first waking thought: **not yet**. Not Yet.

But her guts, oh her guts churn and burn, (has she swallowed hell itself?) and though she tries to get out of bed, her legs are still weak and trembling, her senses dulled not just by the surrounding night, but from this accursed failing; damned illness, damned medicine, damned life: she falls to her knees with a yell that barely makes it out of her throat, grabbing onto her pillow blindly. Her world spins like a horrendous waltz, then straightens again as she stands on all fours. She is terrified. (Terrified like in the war, with bombs and hunger and the endless spitting of guns, and even more: but at least then, she could run away, run away across a whole damn ocean.) Acid scratches at her throat. She tries to get up, or to crawl or something, anything at all before she begins retching, and knocks over one of her plants, the pot landing with a loud thump somewhere; but she is also determined, not just afraid, and so she struggles on. She has just reached the hall when the door to Thomas’ room bursts open, and through her dim and dizzy vision, Mrs. Robinson can see the shape of the young man approach. 

Relief floods the small part of her that isn’t busy with trying not to die.

“Mrs. Robinson, are you - “

“Bathroom.”, she manages to choke out, somehow still holding the bile in. Her skin, her muscles, her bones pulse with a frantic heartbeat, and it feels like the devil has sat on her back; she tries to inhale deeply, but all it does is make everything worse. The next moment, she finds herself carried and put down in front of the sink just the moment before she is unable to hold it in any longer; she retches until she can’t stand, with Thomas holding her up and sitting her down, bringing a cup of water to her mouth to drink and chattering on meaningless, reassuring things she cannot quite understand right now with her muffled state of mind. He cups her cheek and takes her pulse, and takes her back to bed, setting her down gingerly and pulling the covers over her, righting the fallen pot.

“Don’t worry”, he says, mouth a tight, anxious line, “all will be well.”

And she drifts off, feeling faintly and altogether too uncomfortable and hot in her own skin. When she wakes again - who knows if minutes or hours later? - she hears Thomas shuffle about just outside her bedroom door, feet and voice both quiet yet agitated. He seems to be talking about her condition, soft, detailed hushes of what had just occurred before turning reproachful. I’d thought you’d said she’d be alright, he says, and before she drifts off again, Mrs. Robinson thinks, liars, aren’t they love? 

\- - -

[SIDE C]

Loki drops his bag onto the floor with the half-hearted effort he is capable of mustering right now, closing the door firmly behind himself and sagging back onto the hard wood; he sighs, rakes a hand through his disheveled hair and rolls his shoulders, eyes fluttering once and scanning the ceiling. (Why does he do that, why does he always look _up_ , as though someone was still there, as though a no might magically change itself to a yes?) 

He shakes his head, and pushes himself off the door. 

Her landlady is off to the hospital again, so he can be by himself, in blessed if oft feared solitude - not that Mrs. Robinson is ever much of a bother, she is a very tactful, sweet human -, finally having a chance to rest himself. Because if someone thought leading two lives was though, like being a super villain and a pre-K teacher, well, they should try having a third, like being one damnable Tony Stark’s arm candy! It’s finally taking a toll on him, he thinks as he shuffles towards his bed, taking off his shirt and pants as he goes, dropping them en route; he just might have to give up one… which just might have been Ironman’s plan. The prat.

He falls into his unmade bed as he is in his underwear, managing to heave his legs up after a bit, reshuffling himself to rest his head on his pillow; he shifts his face against the soft material beneath, breathes and realizes with a surprised blink that it smells of Stark. Of course, this being the pillow he usually sleeps on - he makes an effort here to be properly mortified at the thought that it is becoming a habit for the man to spend nights in his bed after they stumble back from whatever party, falling asleep like two pieces of lumber, but it quickly fails -, this should be no surprise: Loki rolls his face into it, sniffs in his heavy scent, that of metal and sweat and something else… Something like fire, he thinks, like a smithy, and he remembers the sight of him, hammer in hand, as he whacked away at the red-hot steel in his workshop, the pounding of creation (instead of destruction, like his damnable not-brother) ringing throughout; the muscles of his back, of his arms, taut and slick with sweat from the heat of his work, from forging something brand new and great, eyes clouded with concentration, his hair stuck to his head - he wiped at it with the back of his hand - and his arms, strong arms -

\- what would it be like, being held by those arms? How would those calloused hands feel on his skin, would their warmth blaze through? What would it be like, to kiss and touch and -

Loki’s breath hitches as he realizes where his thoughts have been going, and worse yet, that he has become aroused, his skin tingling with need at the thought of another man. Furious and tears stinging his eyes, he throws the pillow into a corner as hard as he can; he is not argr, no matter how they always whispered it behind his back.

(Damn Tony Stark.)


	6. The Most Mysterious

[SIDE A]

Mrs. Robinson awakes to the dreadful feeling of boneless fatigue, - which, by the way, should be a contradiction; evolution had to have take a few bad turns there - and tries to sit up shakily. She doesn’t get very far, slumping quickly back against her pillows, her head woozy and muscles weak from the aftermath of last night’s attack; either the medicine her doctors had assigned is not working, or taking its sweet time.

She sighs, blinking at the white ceiling.

Maybe her time has come, and she is going down in a puddle of her own vomit or worse, with her children so busy and so far away. She shouldn’t be angry with them, she tells herself, after all, it was her that told them she was fine in a last, weak attempt at maintaining some form of dignity and pride. Yet…, yet they should have known she was lying through her teeth, of course she was, (were they blind?), they should have insisted! She shakes her head as though she can shake out the disappointment, letting a quick hiss of air out through her unnatural teeth. 

So alone. In the end, everything is the same; the days, the tears, the good and the bad all mingle into one dirty puddle of mud, from dust to dust indeed.

Or should she be alone? What is the right and obligation of a parent and a child in this strange new world, families so far apart while seemingly so reachable through phones and computers and whatnot? (Should she be left to ponder on her life alone once again, facing the demons that crawl forth from the pores of her shriveled skin? Except where one can escape a country torn with war, bullets and blood and betrayal everywhere (and damn politics and politicians and soldiers to the deepest depths of hell), illness haunts you down and follows. Suddenly, she thinks of a rat chewing at the roots of a great tree, but the image vanishes just as quickly from her mind.)

"Did I wake you?", Thomas says suddenly from the doorway, knocking her out of her reverie; he doesn’t look like he slept much, (not just last night, but for months, with how huge the black circles are under his green eyes), already in his sweater, bag thrown across his shoulders; she feels terribly sorry for putting him through this. She wishes for enough time to make it up to him. "Forgive me, I’ll try to be more quiet. Would you like something? Water? I have boiled some potatoes earlier for you, if you feel up to it, I can bring some…"

Mrs. Robinson smiles at him, at the tall, thin frame, and sees a boy, anxious and small, with the sort of great, wide eyes that take in everything. He smiles back, a worried little tug he can’t quite mask from the penetrating gaze of a grandmother and a sister of six, ruffling his own hair. She has a feeling she is being a substitute for someone else in Thomas’ life right now, but that’s okay; this is often how hearts work.

It’s then that she is struck by a sudden thought.

"Thank you dear, you’ve been such great help to this stupid old woman.", (he opens his mouth with a cross expression, but she doesn’t let him finish), "Could you bring me my phone perhaps? I think it’s about time I put my darling children to work."

Thomas. What have you done?

\- - -

[SIDE B]

He watches Loki press a long, almost bony finger to his lower lip in an agitated gesture, bouncing a worn-looking map of New York on his skinny knees; the sleeve of his soft green pullover keeps brushing against Tony’s arm, cramped as they are into a double seat of the rickety bus, the space a tad too economical for it to be comfortable for two grown men. The feel of it - a goddamn pullover - almost burns his skin, a guilty pleasure in stark (haha) contrast to the disgust he feels at their surroundings. (Truthfully, he had never anticipated public transportation to be so horrid! So smelly, dirty and overcrowded…Sure, he knows he is a bit sheltered in this context - his first ever car was a Ferrari, after all, and he’d crashed that in a laughably little amount of time with little regret - but still. Still. The poor plebs! This is going to be his next project for sure.)

Tony Stark heaves a long suffering sigh, stroking his beard. 

Being such a good person - a hero - was awfully tiring; not only saving the world as Ironman, but working on other projects to better the standards of living and so took quite an effort! Sure, the work is its on reward and all, but honestly? Sometimes he wants a vacation from his own life. Sometimes, he wishes he was ordinary, just an average Joe (excuse him, Anton), living his life, going to work, hoping for a raise, having a sweetheart to woo and adore; no heroes, no technological race, no villains, no fate of the world resting on his shoulders, just people with good and bad decisions. And cats. Yes, he’d definitely have cats if he was Anton, but now he is simply getting lost in his thoughts instead of focusing on the problem at hand; namely, where the hell are they going? 

He laments over receiving the other’s text for a moment or two at this point, even if it was the first real message he’d gotten from the extraterrestial; finally, a real strike-up, not just a halfhearted acknowledgement of their next rendezvous! Yes, there it was, a date and place suddenly appearing out of nowhere, no explanation, no nothing on his phone, and of course, he rushed, dropping the torch and diving head-first into the adventure, as his incautious self is bound to do, because what could Loki possibly need him for, ~~other than buying a jaw-dropping designer dress that Tony refuses to think about, especially in the shower~~? 

… Obviously, he expected something more thrilling than a bus-ride to the Great Unknown. Really, what sort of magical super-villain takes a bus? And makes a superhero take a bus, for that matter!

Loki’s eyebrows pull together minutely with a soft, thoughtful hum, jerking Tony out of his revere; he looks far too human here, far too worried, far too vulnerable, far too _Thomas_. It makes Tony’s skin crawl in that odd way, because fighting someone simply evil instead of lost and confused and wrecked is so much simpler, so much truer, and he is afraid he’ll lose sight of the fact that Thor’s little brother causes havoc and destruction every other week if he opens his eyes too much. Yet… He shifts the weight of his backpack on his thighs, looking elsewhere as his knuckles brush against the pale hand clutching the map, and he feels more than sees from the corner of his eyes the sharp green gaze snap to him, weary and angered at the hidden gesture; Loki isn’t someone like Thomas.

(Or, he thinks, that’s what Loki tries to make himself believe, wears it like an armor around himself, around his heart, so very afraid to let it drop and hey, if anyone in this damnable universe, nay, this damnable dimension of existence can understand that, understand why this is so fucking - so fatally - important, then its Anthony Edward Stark, right here next to him in this smelly bus and Loki is an idiot that he hadn’t realized that yet or just has his head far too deep in the sand; just like Tony, who doesn’t want to acknowledge the fact they are both damaged goods and world champion assholes, because then he’d have to look for the difference and he just can’t do that.)

Ironman hums Black Sabbath under his breath for a moment. Make sure to boil your Loki properly and serve hot.

"Anton, love.", a tense whisper.

Flavor according to taste, he smiles slightly.

The billionaire turns toward the menace of buffet tables and New York, (who is currently rather cross, oh, Tony is so sleeping on the couch tonight - but oh wait, Loki only has a couch, snap), twisting his lips in an imitation of a comforting smile for him. The alien, predictably, tries to murder him with his eyes, to which Ironman can do naught but raise his eyebrows in question; its actually not a ‘what have I done now sweetheart’ but a ‘where are you taking me (are you going to admit we are lost so I can turn on the gps)’ and they both now it. They stare, back to their cowboy game for a few moments, until his odd companion finally gives in, and with a barely there roll of his eyes, points to an area on the map. 

From his patrols of the sky, he knows the vicinity to be rather run-down, almost to the point of being desolate. Interesting. Is he going to get murdered? 

He hums, raising his eyebrows again, but the villain is still a tight-lipped bastard, boring holes into Ironman’s face with his green eyes. Tony chuckles to himself. Being with Loki can be so refreshing! However his amusement had annoyed the icicle of his heart, and the villain jerks his head away so quickly he can hear something snap; mournfully, Tony studies him, the view of straight black locks, soft in the dim light of today’s gloomy weather, falling onto a slim, alabaster neck. It’s a stupidly gorgeous neck, and he honestly wants to kiss it, honestly wants to kiss Loki, on the lips, on the cheek, on the… everywhere, feeling like he wants to devour him when he has it really bad for the alien. (Tony pinches the bridge of his nose, frustrated. To hell with his cray-cray libido, he was supposed to be straight or something.)

Minutes pass in silence, until unexpectedly, the villain next to him folds the map back into tiny little squares that will lead to whole streets getting worn off eventually, and shoves it down the pocket of his skinny-legged jeans, (which pair of garments he vehemently does not think about in the shower either, because _really_ , the dress is more than enough and would he please just stop it already). What happens next takes Tony by total surprise; giving a small sigh, Loki slumps toward him, resting his head on his shoulder. 

And there you have it. Loki is… leaning onto him. 

Just like that. 

On him. 

His hair catches on his beard, smelling like the fruit shampoo he has seen so many times in his shower. Alright, alright, relax. Just relax, he tells himself, he is not going to murder you. He could have done that so, so many times before. Like that one time Tony beat his record at Doodlejump, and saved as Trololol. Or hacked his laptop, and made sure that any and every website first resulted in a) a cat video b) porn. Or that time he destroyed a small tower of books by complete accident. Or… maybe it’s better to stop right now.

This is just the game from before, just Thomas and Anton sitting on Bus number who the hell knows, two gay guys with uncanny resemblances making their way to Death, Desolate and Beyond, and has nothing to do with Loki Odinson or Tony Stark, or their questionable sanity. 

Yes.

"There is a fairy shop there. They do trade in things from the other realms.", Loki whispers, tilting his head slightly in the way lovers murmur into each other’s ears, and Tony entirely ignores everything else happening to concentrate on this, "I’ve had it with your stupid medicine."

Ah. 

(How deliciously odd.) Ironman hums again, grasping one of the long, slender hands resting on the thin thighs, skin cold and smooth against his own, fingers slipping together; out of the corner of his eyes, he sees a young woman in pink scrutinizing them from one of the seats not far away, a strict thing in a badly fitting skirt and a frown on her face. Something about her feels wrong, a shiver under his skin.

"How sweet of you, mein kleines Nudelholz.", he mumbles into the hair, plants a kiss because he can and annoying the asgardian will surely keep the thought of her out of his mind; Loki squeezes his hand in return just enough to hurt, but doesn’t respond. (Damn bastard probably knew what he wanted.) They spend the rest of the wobbly bus-ride in silence, Tony keeping his gaze on the window and trying not to catalogue all the mechanical problems he can hear, and they get off at what feels like the middle of nowhere (oh, and Loki gets off like an elderly lady, wanting to stand up and pull the line as soon as they left the stop _before_, which is just plain ridiculous for a powerful life form from outer space), and Tony scratches his beard in distaste, shrugging his backpack into a more comfortable position.

"Fairies?", he says, because the population density is approaching zero here, so it feels safe enough. They begin walking in whichever direction, Loki half a step ahead with hands in his pockets, and rolls his eyes. (Rightful king of Sassgard.)

"Yes. They are tall, pretty, vile creatures that would trade their own mothers; fortunately, they are afraid of iron."

Tony gasps in mock horror as they pass a liquor store.

"Are you using me as a bodyguard?"

"Perhaps.", Loki replies with an odd twist of his lips that borders on a smile, and Ironman snorts in amusement, shaking his head. Just then, the badly fitting skirt catches his eyes again, disappearing into a building up ahead, and he stares after it. Strange, he would have sworn the woman did not get off the bus with them… He eyes the place; it doesn’t look any different from it’s surroundings, but there is an odd sign next to the door - oh, oh by Tesla, that might be alien script. Somehow the notion really excites him, event though he has technically been sleeping in one bed with a real life alien several times now. (In fact, he seems to be developing something akin to a… crush or whatever on said alien, but anyway.) His line of sight catches his companion’s attention too, prompting him to abruptly halt his steps before striding towards the door just as suddenly, forcing Tony into a weird little dance of stop-backward-after, gee, thank you Loki.

"Hey! Where to, Schatzi?"

"It seems the shop has moved.", comes the curt answer, a pale hand already pushing the dirty door in; as though struck by lightening, the sight of it invokes utter dread in the engineer, his gut clenching at the pitch-black darkness looming within. Damn, it’s really of the foreboding, horror movie kind - and Loki has obviously not watched many, if at all, horror movies, because he swoops right in, and Tony swears he is going to buy the Ring and Elm street and everything in dvd and blu-ray and sit his pseudo-boyfriend down if they survive.

"I hate to be the voice of reason, because I’m obviously not the man for the job-", or maybe its a super-villain thing, not being afraid of the dark or whatever, he thinks as Loki yanks him in by the front of his jacket. Behind them, the door shuts with a great boom, and oh, that is definitely the lock clicking. 

Tony can’t see his nose. The bells in his head go crazy.

"If you wanted to make out in the dark, all you needed to do was ask. This whole set up is completely unnecessary.", so his voice trembles a little and he shifts closer to the ‘warmth’ of the frost giant; no biggie. Its not like he was ever tortured and held hostage in a dark cave. 

"What are you talking about, Stark? The lights are on…", Loki says somewhere next to him, perhaps turning his head; it’s darker than a black hole, and how is that even possible when it is two in the afternoon?

Something cracks in the far off corner, something like bones, but hopefully that’s only the horror flicks talking. 

"Oh.", the alien says. 

(Oh, Tony could kick his ass, oh.)

It’s the type of ‘oh’ that means someone has overlooked something they shouldn’t have, the type of ‘oh’ that means this is going to be troublesome, if not outright fatal. He resists the urge of frantically try to pick a lock in the dark, feeling his palms begin to sweat. His breath is beginning to become uneven, when unexpectedly, he feels Loki’s hand find his own, firm yet soft, an odd yet achingly familiar sensation, (and how hilarious is that, two grown men holding hands in the scary dark), pulling him closer; his heart slips back down his throat. (Doesn’t mean he doesn’t jump a little when there is a whisper in his ear, the soft silk of the other’s voice slithering in.)

"When I give the sign, you run like you have Muspell’s fury on your heels."

Tony gives an angry hiss, and squeezes the slender digits with all his might (the giant just might feel it that way), “I don’t know if you noticed, honey pie, but the door is locked and I can’t see jack.” 

Loki huffs, the puff of air tickling his neck. “And you wonder why I think humans are useless. You fall apart at the first breeze.”

(Is this what its like to be around Tony? An urge to break a nose?)

"I might not be a living fridge, but I would have had enough sense not to go in the creepy dark building!"

"What?! You saw through the illusion and didn’t see fit to tell me?"

"What illusion, oh great mage?"

"I swear, I am going to-"

"Throw me out a window? Hate to disappoint, but this is the ground floor, Kitty-cat."

There is another snap, and a light flickers to life, a small bulb beginning to swing back and forth not too far off; it interrupts their bickering long enough for Tony to notice the piles of outdated electronic devices strewn around. 

"Fine. I’m sure you’ll make it out alive on your own. ", Loki says with the air of a diva offended to the blood, snatching his hand away; Tony actually mourns the loss of contact, but only because the other is a giant (albeit a pygmy one) and this is a life threatening something they are in. 

"Seriously Princess? It’s not like I offended your fashion sense."

"Hardly possible, seeing how you are completely lacking in that department.", Loki scoffs back, and if he didn’t have that odd spine tingle, he’d laugh himself silly at the ‘gurl, that dress with those shoes’ flick of eyes he is given, but as it is, there is something moving in the corner that most definitely shouldn’t be.

Something… Something like…

Abruptly, Loki drops on him, sending them both crashing to the floor just in time to miss whatever it is that hits the door with a deafening noise, instantly rebounding against all the walls. (To note, this is probably the first time in his life that Tony is thankful the alien grew up as a space viking.) He looks around the room from under the protective shield of the villain’s body, but all he sees are the electronics… The electronics moving on their own toward some unknown center… 

"Move.", Loki commands atop him (and he’d have loved for it to be in a more mature and intimate version than in this), and a moment later he is dragged along by his wrist through another door. It’s frighteningly dark here too, and they crash against the wall before Loki bothers with a spell, enchanting the filthy lights on the ceiling to come to life. 

"Seriously? Worst surprise date ever."

"I had gathered, even as a first impression, that you are most fond of useless babble", the other says while surveying the room, which seems to be an electric workshop left to rot, windowless and full of yet more junk, "but don’t you ever keep quiet?"

In more leisurely circumstances, Tony would have answered with the longest run-on sentence he could muster (because at this point in his life, egging the villain on has become his most dangerous and favorite hobby); but he is busy glaring death and trying to figure out what they are in.

"Can’t you just wave your pretty hand and make all this go away?"

Loki gives him a half-hearted, ‘thou are an imbecile” look, which he ought to get patented.

"I can’t do anything until I know who we are facing. A spell good against one thing can be disastrous against another."

Tony is just about to remark how useless this whole magic shebang is, when there is a very ominous scratching sound occurring in the hallway, moving closer and closer towards them. The lights, weak anyway, begin to flicker in ways that are definitely epilepsy inducing, and for a moment he thinks he sees the woman from before standing in the doorway - but then she is gone. The lights, having reached the end of their miserable struggle for a little more glory, give out, and there is silence dropping down on them, a chill that settles right into their bones. (Or Tony’s anyway. Who knows about Loki’s bones.) He hears his partner-in-horror shift beside him, the ever continuing sound of what must be those electronic devices crawling drawing closer; he kinda makes a half-assed silent prayer that the villain continues his recent tendency of saving his ass, before he has a startling realization.

Or rather, when a cable snakes around his ankle and lands him squarely on his said savable ass, beginning to drag him away, he hits himself against his backpack, full of compact armor.

Right. Because he actually had a forethought.

"initiate mark s zero two!", he yells, hoping the prototype does work and he will not be entangled and choked in and by a web of cables. His luck doesn’t run out just yet, and moments later the armor begins to descend, and _finally_ , he can see something. 

"Tesla’s testicles!"

It’s a spider. A giant spider made up haphazardly of electronics, hooked together in no other sensible manner than to make a mass; from within its fangs, something definitely like blood drips in great big drops. Light floods the room again with a crackle, emitting from small blueish bubbles, probably made by Loki; he takes the moment of hesitation the creature makes to blast it backwards and scramble away.

"Can we do the whole Shazam thing now, or do you want me to try to dissect it?", he snarls toward Loki, but the only answer he gets to his question is a small yelp; he whirls around to see his enemy, in casual armor now, get dragged off through the other door by his throat, courtesy of another batch of cables. He finds himself surprisingly terrified and angry, starting to go after him - but then there is yet another crunch. He screams at the metal digging into the tender flesh of his arm. 

Tony whirls around to give another good blast, and startles when he finds a man instead of a spider.

"Huh. Well, what an odd fancy of chance for us to meet at a place and time like this, but I’m afraid-"

"Stark.", the man gurgles, a pool of blood escaping through a slit in his throat; Tony bites his lip and desperately tries to recall his latest blueprint. "Stark."

The man, pasty and dirty blond, moves his other hand toward his mask, and Ironman’s saving grace is the frost giant he was trying to rescue, two sharp chunks of ice embedding themselves into the head of the thing with so much force, it lets go of his arm and falls to the ground, coming apart as a heap of electronics. Loki looks absolutely livid in the door, one hand full of a mess of cables, a DVD player dangling mournfully at one’s end; Ironman is sort of happy he isn’t at the end of the wrath for once.

"Show thyself, creature of the dark! If you have Truth, show it! If you have Regret, show it!", and the invitation does have it’s effect, because the whole floor, starting from the alien’s feet, starts to curl up with a sickening sound, millions and billions of spiders escaping from below, crawling all over the walls and the ceiling; out of the monitors, bloodied hands burst out, reaching for something, reaching for Tony, an endless chatter of ‘Stark, Stark’ resonating and god, he is going to have serious nightmares for years, if he is still alive.

"I do not approve of your plan, Smurfette!"

Loki makes no move, just stands stock-still as the arms and cables twine around Tony, trapping him no matter how hard he tries to free himself, blasting left and right, growing more and more panicked by the second; his lightweight armor has no other function, not even a pocketknife, and by the lord of engineering, he should have thought of that, and why isn’t Loki helping, the bastard, the heartless son of a -

"Stark.", says the man with the slit throat, barely a chunk of flesh as he emerges from the mass of electronics, steadily growing larger, more human shaped; he wobbles forward to Tony, hand outstretched for his throat, "Murderer. My murderer."

Oh god.

The hand settles around his neck, and Tony can feel the metal press closer and closer to his skin, all his muscles tensing under the strain of trying to free himself, but to no avail. He is going to die here, he thinks, here, in a stupid hole, with Loki the asshole just standing there and watching as this thing chokes him to death because of -

"Stark. Stark. Stark. You ruined him. It was his life’s work, and you ruined him, you heartless bastard!", the man’s tenor morphs into a high-pitched woman’s shriek, and there she is, badly fitting pink skirt and all, mascara smeared on her wretched, pale face, hair flying everywhere, the building practically vibrating with the supernatural fury. She pushes him down while the wires and hands pull him, until Tony is on his knees; the mad, satisfied smile on her face as she begins to tighten her grip terrifies him to his very core. This is the end, he should close his eyes, so this isn’t the last damn thing he knows before his breath is crushed, but he cannot; he watches her smile grow so wide it _does_ reach her ears, thinks that he just might get eaten before there is a great big bang and an enormous gust of wind: it sucks her, the hands, the darkness, everything backward, and Tony falls on his hands, finally able to breathe, but keeps his eye on her, her gigantic mouth and red eyes, nails leaving deep, deep lines on the floor as she tries to resist the pull of the hole by Loki’s feet.

Loki. Tony has never seen him like this before, channeling so much magic that his whole form glows in a weird light, brightest in the palm he keeps outstretched above the hole, his eyes alit with what he thinks must be the universe itself.

"I give you my blood to drink", he says in a voice that recalls the whisper of branches on a windy summer day, and blood flows from his palm onto the woman, gradually clearing, "I give you my water to be cleansed. With this, night shall break for day to come, winter shall end for spring to bloom, a heart shall mend for memory to be forgotten: I remove your Regret, and I remove your Truth."

He claps, once and open-palmed above the hole (Tony swears he sees real antlers atop his head right then), and just like that, everything is gone, and Ironman is left kneeling on the floor of an abandoned lab at approximately three p.m. on a Thursday afternoon, panting.

Loki gives him a sneer that isn’t quite so perfect because of the gleam in his eyes.

"I see you’ve finally found your proper place, Stark. I must admit I very much like the all-fours alternative."

Asshole. Tony frowns the biggest frown he’s had in a while, quickly scrambling to his feet.

"You cut that a little close, Reindeer Games."

The villain huffs as he turns, shrugging his clothes back to civilian. 

\- - -


End file.
